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Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland   By:

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Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

By Abigail Stanley Hanna.

"There comes a voice that awakes my soul; It is the voice of years that are gone, They roll before me with all their deeds."

1857.

Preface

These pages were not written for public inspection; but to beguile the weary hours of indisposition, and present a record of thoughts and sentiments to the eyes of my children, after my lips are sealed in death.

By the recommendation of friends, I have decided to submit them to the public.

From a criticising public I should shrink; but to a sympathizing public I would appeal, trusting the holy mantle of charity will be flung over my errors, and my motives appreciated.

I would take this opportunity to tender my hearty and sincere thanks to my patrons, who have aided me in this enterprise, not only by their subscriptions, but by their words of sympathy and encouragement, which have fallen like sunshine upon my gloomy pathway, warming my desolate heart, and leaving a sweet fragrance upon the memory, which shall live on and on, through the long ages of eternity; for beautifully and emphatically has Mrs. Childs said,

"Goodness and beauty live forever,"

Perhaps I should apologise for the pensive strain in which I have written, but it has been in shady places, when the body was suffering from disease, and I felt almost too weak to breathe. Dear reader, did you ever feel that you were dying? that there was but a step between you and death? How natural, at such a time, and in such a place, to contemplate the circumstances connected with the deaths of dear, departed friends.

Hoping this may lead some thoughtless one to reflection, I submit it to the investigation of a generous public.

But if I fail in this, shall I have written in vain? O, no; it is but a fulfilment in part of the great mission, "do with all thy might what thy hand findeth to do." If we have but one small talent we are commanded to put it upon usury, "that the Lord may receive his own when he cometh."

Some pieces were contributions from the pen of a loved sister, whose sentiments and principles are in unison with my own, and so they flow on together, in one common channel. Those designated by a star () in the Index, are from her pen.

On page 141, near the bottom, the paragraph which now reads, "You did not expect me to be found alone now, did you?" should read, "You did not expect to find me alive now," &c.

On page 272, in the 11th line from the top, in the word "rugg'd," the letter e should be substituted for the apostrophe.

These errors escaped attention in reading the proof, before it went to press.

When autumn winds are round us sighing, When pale flowers are 'round us dying, It pain and pleasure to us gives, To gather up the wither'd leaves.

The year so tasteful flung her flow'rs In garlands gay, o'er sylvan bow'rs; But where they hung: so brief Now only hangs the wither'd leaf.

Dear reader, thus to thee I come, With tresses blossom'd for the tomb; And offer what the season gives, My faded flow'rs my WITHERED LEAVES.

A. S. H.

Index

Shadows of the Past

Reminiscences; The Old Homestead The Old House The Old School House The Grave Yard

Midnight Scenes, or, Pictures of Human Life Picture No. 2 Picture No. 3 Picture No. 4

The History of a Household

Lines written during convalescence from Brain Fever

The Angel Cousin

Lines written at the close of the year 1842

Lines written on the New Year 1843

The Unhappy Marriage

On the year 1852

Consumption

To Mrs. A.B.

An Evening in our Village

Contemplations in a Grave Yard

A Scene on the Kennebec River

To Miss H. B

Lines written in an Album

A Long Night in the Eighteenth Century

On Hearing a Bird Sing, Dec. 19, 1826

Variety

Henriette Clinton

The Child

On the Death of Ellen A. B

The Order of Nature

The Seasons

Dedication of an Album

To Mrs. S. on the Death of her infant

To Mrs... Continue reading book >>




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